Chapter II: Part 2

October in New England is perhaps the most beautiful--certainly the most magnificent month in the year. The peculiar brilliancy of the skies and purity of the atmosphere,--the rich and variegated colors of the forest trees, and the deep, bright dyes of the flowers, are unequalled by any thing in the other seasons of the year; but the ruin wrought among the flowers by one night of those severe frosts which occur at the latter end of the month, after a day of cloudless and intense sunshine, can scarcely be imagined by one not familiar with the scene.

Thou'rt here again, October, with that queenly look of thine--
All gorgeous thine apparel and all golden thy sunshine--
So brilliant and so beautiful--'tis like a fairy show--
The earth in such a splendid garb, the heav'ns in such a glow.

'Tis not the loveliness of Spring--the roses and the birds,
Nor Summer's soft luxuriance and her lightsome laughing words;
Yet not the fresh Spring's loveliness, nor Summer's mellow glee
Come o'er my spirit like the charm that's spread abroad by thee.

The gaily-mottled woods that shine--all crimson, drab, and gold,
With fascination strong the mind in pensive musings hold,
And the rays of glorious sunshine there in saddening lustre fall--
'Tis the funeral pageant of a king with his gold and crimson pall.

Thou'rt like the Indian matron, who adorns her baby fair,
E'er she gives it to the Ganges' flood, all bright, to perish there;
Thou callest out the trusting buds with the lustre of thy sky,
And clothest them in hues of Heaven all gloriously--to die.

Thou'rt like the tyrant lover, wooing soft his gentle bride--
Anon the fit of passion comes--and her smitten heart hath died;
The tyrant's smile may come again, and thy cheering noonday skies,
But smitten hearts and flowers are woo'd, in vain, again to rise.

* * * * *

Thy reign was short, thou Beautiful, but they were despot's hours--
The gold leaves met the forest ground, and fallen are the flowers;
Ah, 'tis the bitterness of earth, that fairest, goodliest show,
Comes to the heart deceitfully, and leaves the deeper wo.

ELIZA.

_Maine_.

MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD.
Where, mother, where have the fire-flies been
All the day long, that their light was not seen?

MOTHER.
They've been 'mong the flowers and flown through the air,
But could not be seen--for the sunshine was there.
And thus, little girl, in thy morning's first light,
There are many things hid from thy mind's dazzled sight,
Which the ev'ning of life will too clearly reveal,
And teach thee to see--or, it may be, to feel.

CHILD.
Where, mother, where will the fire-flies go
When the chilling snows fall and the winter winds blow?

MOTHER.
The tempest o'ercomes them, but cannot destroy:
For the spring time awakes them to sunshine and joy.
And thus, little girl, when life's seasons are o'er,
And thy joys and thy hopes and thy griefs are no more,
May'st thou rise from death's slumbers to high worlds of light,
Where all things are joyous, and all things are bright.

IMOGENE.

LINES

Written on one of the blank leaves of a book sent to a friend in England.

As he who sails afar on southern seas,
Catches rich odor on the evening breeze,
Turns to the shore whence comes the perfum'd air,
And knows, though all unseen, some flower is there--

Thus, when o'er ocean's wave these pages greet
Thine eye, with many a line from minstrel sweet,
Think of Virginia's clime far off and fair,
And know, though all unseen, a friend is there.

IMOGENE.

THE BROKEN HEART.

... The morning dew-drop,
With all its pearliness and diamond form
Vanisheth.

* * * * *

... She turned her from the gate, and walked
As quietly into her father's hall,
As though her lover had been true. No trace
Of disappointment or of hate was found
Upon the maiden's brow: but settled calm,
And dignity unequalled. And they spoke
To her, and she did mildly answer them
And smiled: and smiling, seem'd so like an angel,
That you would think the man who could desert
A form so lovely, after he had won
Her warm affections, must be more than demon.

And though she shrunk not from the love of those
Who were around her, and was never found
In fretful mood--yet did they soon discover
The rosy tinge upon her youthful cheek
Concentrate all its radiance into one
Untimely spot, and her too delicate frame
Wither away beneath the false one's power.
But lovelier yet, and brighter still she grew
Though Death was near at hand--as the moon looks
Most lovely as she sinks within the sea.
Her fond devoted parents watch with care
The fatal enemy: friends and physicians
Exert their skill most faithfully. Alas!
Could Love or Friendship bind a broken heart,
The fading flower might be recalled to life.

* * * * *

She's gone, where she will chant the melody
Of Seraphim _and live_--beyond the power
Of the base. Then weep not, childless parents, weep not,--
But think to meet her soon. Her smile is yet
More lovely now than when a child of earth:
For she has caught the ray of dazzling glory
And sweet divinity, that beams all bright
Upon her Saviour's face; and waits to cast
That smile on thee.

ELIZA

_Richmond, Va._

HALLEY'S COMET--1760.

BY MISS E. DRAPER.

Good George the Third was sitting on his throne--
His limbs were healthy, and his wits were sound;
In gorgeous state St. James's palace shone--
And bending courtiers gather'd thick around
The new made monarch and his German bride,
Who sat in royal splendor side by side.

Pitt was haranguing in the House of Lords--
Blair in the Pulpit--Blackstone at the Bar--
Garrick and Foote upon the Thespian boards-- {10}
And pious Whitfield in the open air--
While nervous Cowper, shunning public cares,
Sat in his study, fattening up his hares.

Sterne was correcting proof-sheets--Edmund Burke
Planning a register--Goldsmith and Hume
Scribbling their histories--and hard at work
Was honest Johnson; close at hand were some
Impatient creditors, to urge the sale
Of his new book, the Abyssinian tale.

Italia smiled beneath her sunny skies--
Her matchless works were in her classic walls;
They had not gone to feast the Frenchman's eyes--
They had not gone to fill Parisian halls:
The Swiss was in his native Canton free,
And Francis mildly ruled in Germany.

Adolphus reigned in Sweden; the renown
Of Denmark's Frederic overawed her foes;
A gentle Empress wore the Russian crown;
Amid the gilded domes of Moscow rose
The ancient palace of her mighty Czars,
Adorn'd with trophies of their glorious wars.

Altho' the glory of the Pole was stain'd,
Still Warsaw glitter'd with a courtly train,
And o'er her land Augustus Frederic reign'd;
Joseph in Portugal, and Charles in Spain--
Louis in France, while in imperial state
O'er Prussia's realm ruled Frederic the Great.

In gloomy grandeur, on the Ottoman throne
Sat proud Mustapha. Kerim Khan was great
Amid fair Persia's sons; his sword was one
That served a friend, but crush'd a rival's hate:
O'er ancient China, and her countless throng,
Reign'd the bold Tartar mighty Kian Long.

America then held a common horde
Of strange adventurers; with bloody blade
The Frenchman ruled--the Englishman was lord--
The haughty Spaniard, o'er his conquests sway'd--
While the wild Indian, driven from his home,
Ranged far and lawless, in the forest's gloom.

Thus was the world when last yon Comet blazed
Above our earth. On its celestial light
Proudly the free American may gaze:
Nations that last beheld its rapid flight
Are fading fast; the rest no more are known,
While his has risen to a mighty one.

EXTRACTS FROM MY MEXICAN JOURNAL.

Mexico--Procession of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios--Visit to the Country--Society and Manners in Mexico--Climate.

20th June, 1825. Since our arrival on the 25th May, my occupations have been such as to prevent my seeing many of the _lions_ of Mexico. I have, however, walked through the principal streets, and visited most of the churches, of which some are very rich and splendid--some are ancient and venerable--others are fine and gaudy--while a few of the more modern are extremely neat and handsome. The churches are numerous: these, with the convents, occupy almost every alternate square of the city; but with all this show of religion, there is a proportionate degree of vice among its population.

The city is, indeed, magnificent; many of the buildings are spacious. The streets are not wide, but well paved--clean in the most frequented, but excessively filthy in the more remote parts, and thronged with dirty, diseased, deformed, and half naked creatures. Disgusting sights every moment present themselves. At the corners of every street--each square is called a street, and bears a distinct name,--at the doors of the churches which you must be passing constantly in your walks--and sometimes in the areas of the private residences, you are importuned by miserable beggars, some of whom, not satisfied with a modest refusal, chase you into charity, which you are not assured is well bestowed.

We meet in the streets very few well dressed people; the ladies seldom walk, except to mass early in the morning, when some pretty faces are seen.

Such is the character of the street-population of Mexico. So much filth, so much vice, so much ignorance are rarely found elsewhere combined. Those who have seen the lazzaroni of Naples, may form a faint idea of the _leperos_ of Mexico.

The _leperos_ are most dexterous thieves--none can be more expert in relieving you of your pocket handkerchief; it is unsafe to trust them within your doors. I knew an American who had his hat stolen from under the bench on which he was seated in the Cathedral listening to a sermon![1]

[Footnote 1: A very ingenious theft by one of this class was mentioned to me by an American who was present when it took place. At a fair in the interior of the country, two Americans were seated on a bench engaged in conversation, one of them having his hat by his side with his hand upon it for its protection. Talking earnestly he occasionally uplifted his hand from the hat. On his rising from his seat, he was surprised to find in his hand not his own beaver, but an inferior one which had been substituted for it. At an incautious moment he had ceased to guard it; a hat was there when he put down his hand--but it was not his own.]

They are superstitious, too, almost to idolatry. I may here include with them the better class of people also. The recent reception of the image of _Nuestra Senora de los Remedios_, (Our Lady of Remedies,) I give as evidence of the justice of this remark. Her history is briefly this. She is a deity of Spanish origin--the more highly esteemed Lady of _Guadalupe_--the patron saint of Mexico, is indigenous. She accompanied the conquerors to the city of _Muteczuma_[2]--was lost in their disastrous retreat on the celebrated _noche triste_--was found some years afterwards, in 1540, seated in a _maguey_, by an Indian, _Juan de Aguila_, who carried her to his dwelling, and fed her with _tortillas_, (Indian corn-cakes,) which were regularly deposited in the chest where she was kept. Suddenly she fled, and was discovered on the spot where her temple now stands--the place to which Cortes retreated on the night of his flight from the city. It is an eminence to the west of Mexico, distant about five miles.

[Footnote 2: Cortés, in his Letters, writes the name of the Emperor of Mexico, _Muteczuma_. Humboldt says, I know not on what authority, that _Moteuczoma_ was his name. The English historians always call him Montezuma.]

This identical image, they say, still exists--it is about eight inches in height--it is richly decorated. It is believed to possess the power of bringing rain, and of staying the ravages of disease.

{11} For many days previous to her entrance into the city, great preparations had been made. On the 11th inst. she was conveyed from her sanctuary in the President's coach, which was driven by a nobleman of the old regime, the _Marques de Salvatierra_, bare headed, and attended by a large number of coaches, and crowds of people on foot, to the _parroquia de Santa Vera Cruz_, a church just within the limits of the city. Here, as is usual, she was to rest one night, and on the following evening to proceed to the Cathedral. Before the appointed time, the streets leading to it were covered with canopies of canvass; draperies were suspended from every balcony, and strings of shawls and handkerchiefs stretched across, were seen fluttering in the wind. A regiment of troops marched out to form her escort, and thousands flocked to join her train. But a heavy rain began to fall, and the procession was necessarily postponed, the populace being delighted to find that the intercession of Our Lady was of so much avail, and their faith strengthened at the trifling expense of wet jackets. The procession was now appointed for an early hour the next _morning_, (a _prudent_ arrangement, for it rains, in course, every evening, the rainy season having commenced,) and preparations were again made with increased zeal, proportionate with the gratitude felt at so prompt a dispensation of her Ladyship's favors. Two regiments of infantry and one of cavalry now composed the escort. The concourse of people was immense. Wax tapers, lanterns, candle-boxes, flags, and all the frippery of the churches were carried to grace the occasion; children dressed fantastically, with wings, and gay decorations upon their heads, but barefooted, with tapers in their hands, were led by their parents or nurses to take part in the pageant.

After the procession was formed, a discharge of artillery announced the departure of the holy image from the church, in which she had until now rested. The advance was a corps of cavalry, followed by flocks of ragged Indians, by respectable citizens and the civil authorities, all bearing lighted wax tapers; then followed the numerous religious orders, each order preceded by an Indian carrying on his back a huge mahogany candle-box; the higher dignitaries of the order, with their hands meekly folded on their breasts, each attended by two assistants, bringing up the rear of Carmelites, Augustines, Franciscans, Dominicans, and Mercedarians; next these were other Indians, followed by the _angelic_ little children, who strew roses before the object of their adoration, _La Santa Virgen de los Remedios_, who stands majestically under a canopy, richly clothed, and surrounded by gilded ornaments, supported by four men. As she passed, the people who crowded the streets, and all who fill the windows under which she is carried, knelt, and roses are showered upon her from the roofs of the houses. Next her was another canopy, under which the Host was carried, to which the people also knelt. The troops brought up the rear, escorting Our Lady to the Cathedral, where she remains nine days. If it rain during this time, it is ascribed to her influence. If rain precede her entrance, it is because she was to be brought into the city; and if it follow her departure, it is the consequence of her late presence. The miracle, of course, never fails. After the rainy season has set in, she is introduced annually for the idolatrous worship of this ignorant, superstitious people--not only the _canaille_, but also the most respectable portion of the community.

14th August, 1825. I returned to the city yesterday after an excursion of a week in the vicinity of _Chalco_, about twenty-five or thirty miles distant. We were invited by an acquaintance to his _hacienda_, where he promised fine sport with our guns. Not content with abundance of deer, we were to return with the spoils of sundry wild animals, such as wild-cats, bears, panthers, wolves and tigers. Prepared for ferocious contests, we set out with all the eagerness of huntsmen who feast in their imagination on their slaughtered prey. But in fact, though to hunt was our ostensible object, from which we expected little, although entertained by our friend with extravagant hopes, we left the city chiefly for the purpose of exercise, of viewing the country, and avoiding the water, which, at this season of the year, impregnated with the soda which the heavy rains disengage from the soil, deals sadly with strangers.

A ride of five or six hours brought us to the _hacienda_. This, I have elsewhere said, is a country seat, generally of large extent, with a chapel forming a part of the building, and surrounded by the reed or mud huts of the Indians, who are the laborers, or, as it were, vassals of the estate. A plain, thickly strewed with these _haciendas_, presents the appearance of numerous villages, each with its steeple and bell. The buildings are hollow squares, extensive and commodious, and embracing in their several ranges the usual conveniences of a farm, such as stables, and yards for poultry, sheep and cattle. They all have a look of antiquity, of strength and durability, which, at a distance, is imposing; but on nearer view, they are commonly found dilapidated, and devoid of neatness, and destitute of the garden and the orchard, which give so much the appearance of comfort to the country houses of the United States.

This is their general character, as far as I have seen them, and such was the commodious dwelling to which we were now hospitably invited. It bore the air of tattered grandeur--in its dimensions and in its ruined state showing marks of pristine elegance. It was partially fortified, as were most of them, during the revolution, for protection from lawless depredation, and from the numerous bands of banditti who then roamed through the country, and were royalists or republicans, as was most expedient to accomplish their designs. Even at this time, these defences are esteemed necessary to ensure safety from the robbers who have escaped the vigilance of government by concealing themselves in the adjacent mountains.

On the day of our arrival nothing occurred particularly to attract our notice, except that, after the conclusion of dinner, the tall Indian waiter fell upon his knees in the middle of the room and gave thanks--a custom common, I am told, in the country. To our surprise, this was not repeated. He was either told that we were heretics, (as all foreigners are designated) or was deterred because some of our Catholic friends were less devout on the occasion than was to be expected from them.

It may not be amiss here to mention, that the dinner table of the Mexicans is of indefinite length, always standing in the eating room. One end only is {12} commonly used. The seat of honor is at the head, where the most distinguished and most honored guest is always placed; the rest arrange themselves according to their rank and consequence; the dependants occupying the lowest seats.

After a cup of chocolate at six o'clock the next morning, we went in pursuit of game, and roamed through the hills and mountains which are contiguous, meeting with very little success. At about twelve we partook of our breakfast, which was brought to us more than two leagues from the _hacienda_--after which we prosecuted our hunt. Our sole reward was a heavy shower of rain--and between four and five we returned to the _hacienda_, well wearied, having walked at least twelve miles over steep mountains.

On the following day we set out with our mules, &c. to try our fortune higher up the mountains, and after a ride of between three and four hours, reached a herdsman's hut, where we were to lodge at night. We were unsuccessful in finding game in the evening, and after a laborious search for deer, sought our hut--a log building, about fifteen feet square, in which twelve of us, men, women and children, stowed ourselves. Annoyed by fleas, and almost frozen by the chill mountain air, within two leagues of the snow-crowned _Iztaccihuatl_, we passed a sleepless night.

Early next morning, whilst others of the party engaged in hunting for deer, with two companions I ascended the highest peak of this range, (except those covered with snow,) with great labor and fatigue; but we were compensated amply by the grand view beneath and around us. The adjoining peak to the south of us was the _Iztaccihuatl_, about a league distant. We felt very sensibly the influence of its snow. Beyond this, the _Popocatepetl_ raised its lofty cone, while far in the southeast appeared _Orizaba_, around whose crest the clouds were just then gathering. The plains of _Puebla_ and _Mexico_ are on opposite sides of this seemingly interminable ridge on which we stood. From the latter, the clouds, which we had been long admiring far beneath us, hiding the world from our view, were gradually curling, and disclosed the distant capital with its adjoining lakes and isolated hills. The chilling wind drove us from our height, but in descending we often rested to enjoy a scene which the eyes never tire in beholding.

In the evening, we left the mountain for the _hacienda_, where we spent another day. Our friends were extremely kind to us, and regretted more than ourselves our ill success in quest of game. Being little of a sportsman, to me it was a trifling disappointment. I enjoyed abundant gratification in seeing the country, its people and manner of living. Whatever may be said of the bad blood of the Mexicans, I cannot but view them as a mild and amiable people--nature has bestowed her bounties liberally upon them: for their state of degradation and ignorance they are indebted not to any natural deficiencies of their own, but to the miserable and timid policy of their former Spanish masters. They are superstitious, but this arises from their education; they are jealous of strangers--the policy of Spain made them so; and they are ignorant, for in ignorance alone could they be retained in blind subjection to the mother country. If they are vicious, their vices arise from their ignorance of what is virtuous--of what is ennobling. They are indolent because they are not permitted to enjoy the fruits of industry, and nature supplies their wants so bountifully, they are compelled to exert themselves but little.

These are in fact serious defects, but the improvement of the Mexican people is daily taking place. They are beginning to be enlightened with the rays of the rising sun of liberty; and after the present generation has passed away, the succeeding one will exhibit those political and moral virtues, which are the offspring of freedom. The effects of a daily increasing intercourse with foreigners are even now perceptible, and lead me to believe, that, before many years roll over, a wonderful change must take place. Society, too, will improve: ladies will no longer gormandize or smoke--will discover that it is vulgar to attend cock-fights, and will bestow, with increased regard for their personal appearance, greater attention upon the cultivation of their minds.

In Mexico, there are few parties, either at dinner, or in the evening. None will suit but great balls, and these must occur seldom, else none but the wealthy can attend them, so expensive are the decorations and dresses of the ladies. They esteem it extremely vulgar to wear the same ball-dress more than once. Society is cut up into small _tertulias_ or parties of intimate acquaintances, who meet invariably at the same house, and talk, play the piano, sing, dance, and smoke at their ease and pleasure.

Sometimes I attend the Theatre. This is divided into boxes, which families hire for a year. If the play be uninteresting, they visit each other's box, and pass the evening in conversation. It is diverting to observe the gentlemen take from their pockets a flint and steel for the purpose of lighting their cigars, and then to extend the favor of a light to the ladies; and sometimes the whole theatre seems as if filled with fire-flies.

Immediately on rising, a Mexican takes a small cup of chocolate with a little bread and a glass of water. At ten, they take what they call breakfast--it is in fact equivalent to a dinner, consisting not of tea or coffee, but of meats, sweetmeats and wine. At about three, dinner is served. At six or seven, they again take chocolate; and at ten, an enormous supper is laid of hot meats, &c. equal to a third dinner. At these meals, three or four dishes of meats, with very few vegetables, are brought on in various courses--the _olla podrida_, a mixture of meats, fruits, and vegetables boiled together--always constitutes a part of the first course--_frijoles_--beans boiled--invariably precede the sweetmeats, of which the Mexicans are extremely fond. Perhaps this is the reason why good teeth are seldom seen in Mexico.

* * * * *

23d November, 1825. I have stated that few parties are given in Mexico. Balls are sometimes held by the American and English Legations. If, on these occasions, fifty ladies attend, it is considered a prodigious number to assemble together. The expenses of preparation which they incur are enormous, and deter many, however devoted they may be to pleasure, from partaking in frequent diversions of this kind. Society, too, has not acquired that equilibrium which the democratical institutions of the country must produce eventually. A powerful aristocracy, as may reasonably be supposed, still exists in the capital--time alone will level this--it will die with the present generation, taking for granted {13} that the republicanism of Mexico will be permanent. Aristocracy, of course, reduces the highest class of society to a limited number, so that a large assemblage of ladies here would be thought small in the United States.

At whatever hour you invite company, it will not collect before nine, and the most fashionable appear between ten and eleven. The music soon invites them to the waltz, or to the Spanish country-dance, both of which are graceful, and perhaps voluptuous, when danced, as in Mexico, to the music of guitars or of bandolines. They dance upon brick floors--there are none other in Mexican houses--generally bare, but foreigners have introduced the more comfortable fashion of covering them with canvass; and as the steps are simple, without the hopping and restlessness of our cotillons or quadrilles, it is not so unpleasant as would be supposed; they glide over the pavement without much exertion. The dancing continues, not uninterruptedly as with us, but at intervals, until twelve o'clock, when the ladies are conducted to the supper table, which must be loaded with substantial as well as sweet things. After supper, dancing is continued, and the company begins to disperse between one and two in the morning, and sometimes not until near daybreak.

None of the wealthy families have followed the example set them by foreigners. They give no balls or dinners. Although I have now been here six months, I have never dined in a Mexican house in the city. Their hospitality consists in this: they place their houses and all they possess at your disposal, and are the better pleased the oftener you visit them, but they rarely, if ever, offer you refreshments of any kind. It is said that they are gratified if you will dine with them unceremoniously, but they never invite you.

31st December, 1825. I can scarcely persuade myself that to-morrow will be New-Year's day. The weather is most delightful. We are now sitting with our windows open--at night too. About a fortnight ago the mornings were uncomfortably cool; but the sun at mid-day is always hot. What a delightful climate! And we are now eating the fruits of a northern mid-summer. We have always had fresh oranges since our arrival. A week since we had green peas; and to-day five different kinds of fruit appeared upon our table--oranges, apples, walnuts, _granadites de China_, and _chirimoyas_--the last, _la reina de los frutos_, (the queen of fruit,) tasting like strawberries and cream. The markets contain numerous other sorts. Our friends at home are now gathering around the glowing coals, or treading the snow without. We see the former in the kitchen only--the latter on the valcanoes which tower in the distance.

* * * * *

7th December, 1827. A letter from home affords me the satisfaction of knowing that our friends generally continue to enjoy good health, and are subject to none other than the ordinary ills of life, such as cut-throat weather, squalling brats, or a twinge or two of gout or rheumatism. These are evils which humanity is decreed to suffer throughout the world; but in Mexico we are more exempt from most of them than elsewhere. The sun now _shines_ twelve hours of every day, and either the moon or stars give light to the other twelve. Such will the weather continue to be until May or June, when the rains fall with such regularity and certainty, that very slight observation enables us to know when to go out, or to shelter ourselves. The mornings now are only a little cool, although we are in mid-winter; and our tables are supplied with fruit as bountifully as in the months of July and August. Our other ills are in like manner trivial. We are sometimes _ennuyés_ for want of society, but books, and sometimes a game of chess, enable us to live without being driven to the commission of suicide. And as a _dernier resort_, we throw ourselves into the arms of Morpheus, this being the peculiar delightful climate for sleep--no mosquitos, nor extremes of heat or cold. The thermometer ordinarily ranges at about 70° of Fahrenheit.

SCENES FROM AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA,

BY EDGAR A. POE.

I.

ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.

_Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou?

_Jacinta_ (_pertly_.) Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.

_Lalage_. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.

_Jacinta_ (_aside_.) 'Tis time.

(_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair,
resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress
with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._)

_Lalage_. "It in another climate, so he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"

(_pauses--turns over some leaves, and resumes_.)

"No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind."
Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
O happy land! (_pauses_.) She died!--the maiden died!
O still more happy maiden who could'st die!
Jacinta!

(_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes._)

Again!--a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--
"She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
"I think not so!--her infelicity
Seem'd to have years too many"--Ah luckless lady!
Jacinta! (_still no answer_.)
Here's a far sterner story
But like--oh! very like in its despair--
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
Lean over her and weep--two gentle maids
With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
Rainbow and Dove!----Jacinta!

_Jacinta_ (_pettishly_.) Madam, what _is_ it?

_Lalage_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
As go down in the library and bring me
The Holy Evangelists.

_Jacinta_. Pshaw! (_exit_.)

_Lalage_. If there be balm
For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there! {14}
Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."

(_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.)

There, ma'am's, the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.
(_aside_.)

_Lalage_ (astonished.) What didst thou say Jacinta? Have I done aught
To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
For thou hast served me long and ever been
Trust-worthy and respectful. (_resumes her reading_.)

_Jacinta_. I can't believe
She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all. (_aside_.)

_Lalage_. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
Can I do aught?--is there no farther aid
Thou needest, Jacinta?

_Jacinta_. Is there no _farther_ aid?
That's meant for me. (_aside_.) I'm sure, Madam, you need not
Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

_Lalage_. Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
I thought not of the jewels.

_Jacinta_. Oh! perhaps not!
But then I might have sworn it. After all,
There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot
Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it. (_exit_.)

(_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the
table--after a short pause raises it_.)

_Lalage_. Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! (_taking up
the mirror_.)
Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
And Beauty long deceased--remembers me
Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
For ruin'd maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
_Thou_ hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
Castiglione lied who said he loved----
Thou true--he false!--false!--false!

(_while she speaks a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
unobserved_.)

_Monk_. Refuge thou hast
Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

_Lalage_ (_arising hurriedly_.) I _cannot_ pray!--My soul is at war
with God!
The frightful sounds of merriment below
Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
With horror and awe!

_Monk_. Think of thy precious soul!

_Lalage_. Think of my early days!--think of my father
And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
And the rivulet that ran before the door!
Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
And think of me!--think of my trusting love
And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think! think!
Of my unspeakable misery!----begone!
Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
And vows before the throne?

_Monk_. I did.

_Lalage_. 'Tis well.
There _is_ a vow were fitting should be made--
A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
A solemn vow!

_Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well!

_Lalage_. Father, this zeal is any thing but well!
Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
A crucifix whereon to register
A vow--a vow. (_he hands her his own_.)
Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no! (_shuddering_.)
Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
_I_ have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
And the deed's register should tally, father! (_draws a
cross-handled dagger and raises it on high_.)
Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
Is written in Heaven!

_Monk_. Thy words are madness, daughter!
And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine--
Pause ere too late--oh be not--be not rash!
Swear not the oath--oh swear it not!

_Lalage_. 'Tis sworn!

II.

ROME. An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar, his friend.

_Baldazzar_.----Arouse thee now, Politian!
Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
Give way unto these humors. Be thyself!
Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
And live, for now thou diest!

_Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar,
I live--I live.

_Baldazzar_. Politian, it doth grieve me
To see thee thus.

_Politian_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend.
Command me, sir, what wouldst thou have me do?
At thy behest I will shake off that nature
Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
And be no more Politian, but some other.
Command me, sir.

_Baldazzar_. To the field then--to the field,
To the senate or the field.

_Politian_. Alas! Alas! {15}
There is an imp would follow me even there!
There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there!
There is----what voice was that?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not.
I heard not any voice except thine own,
And the echo of thine own.

_Politian_. Then I but dreamed.

_Baldazzar_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
In hearkening to imaginary sounds
And phantom voices.

_Politian_. It _is_ a phantom voice,
Didst thou not hear it _then_?

_Baldazzar_. I heard it not.

_Politian_. Thou heardst it not!----Baldazzar, speak no more
To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
Of the hollow and high sounding vanities
Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
We have been boys together--school-fellows--
And now are friends--yet shall not be so long.
For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
A Power august, benignant, and supreme--
Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties
Unto thy friend.

_Baldazzar_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
I _will_ not understand.

_Politian_. Yet now as Fate
Approaches, and the hours are breathing low,
The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! Alas!
I _cannot_ die, having within my heart
So keen a relish for the beautiful
As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--
And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
Thou hearest not _now_, Baldazzar!

_Baldazzar_. Indeed I hear not.

_Politian_. Not hear it!--listen now,--listen!--the faintest sound
And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
Into my heart of hearts! that voice--that voice
I surely never heard--yet it were well
Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
In earlier days!

_Baldazzar_. I myself hear it now.
Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
Proceeds from yonder lattice--which you may see
Very plainly through the window--that lattice belongs,
Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
The singer is undoubtedly beneath
The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
As the betrothed of Castiglione,
His son and heir.

_Politian_. Be still!--it comes again!

_Voice_ (_very faintly_.)
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and wo among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
In merry England--never so plaintively--
Hist--hist! it comes again!

_Voice_ (_more loudly_.)
Is it so strong
As for to leave me thus,
Who hath loved thee so long
In wealth and wo among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus?
Say nay--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. 'Tis hush'd and all is still!

_Politian_. All is _not_ still.

_Baldazzar_. Let us go down.

_Politian_. Go down, Baldazzar! go!

_Baldazzar_. The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
Thy presence is expected in the hall
Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

_Voice_ (_distinctly_.)
Who hath loved thee so long,
In wealth and wo among,
And is thy heart so strong?
Say nay!--say nay!

_Baldazzar_. Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!

_Politian_. Remember? I do. Lead on! I _do_ remember. (_going_.)
Let us descend. Baldazzar! Oh I would give,
Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice,
To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
Once more that silent tongue.

_Baldazzar_. Let me beg you, sir,
Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
Let us go down I pray you.

_Voice_ (_loudly_.) Say nay!--say nay!

_Politian_ (_aside_.) 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought the
voice
Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay! (_approaching the
window_.)
Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
Apology unto the Duke for me,
I go not down to-night.

_Baldazzar_. Your lordship's pleasure
Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian.

_Politian_. Good night, my friend, good night.

III.

The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. Lalage and Politian.

_Lalage_. And dost thou speak of love
To _me_, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
To Lalage?--ah wo--ah wo is me!
This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed! {16}

_Politian_. Weep not! oh, weep not thus--thy bitter tears
Will madden me. Oh weep not, Lalage--
Be comforted. I know--I know it all,
And _still_ I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
And beautiful Lalage, and listen to _me_!
Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (_kneeling_.)
Sweet Lalage, I love thee--love thee--love thee;
Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and wo I love thee.
Not mother, with her first born on her knee,
Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
Within my spirit for thee. And do I love? (_arising_.)
Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
Thy beauty and thy woes.

_Lalage_. Alas, proud Earl,
Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
With the ancestral honors of thy house,
And with thy glory?

_Politian_. Speak not--speak not of glory!
I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
What need we more? Ha! glory!--now speak not of it!
By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
There is no deed I would more glory in,
Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
And trample it under foot. What matters it--
What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
That we go down unhonored and forgotten
Into the dust--so we descend together.
Descend together--and then--and then perchance----

_Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Politian_. And then perchance
Arise together, Lalage, and roam
The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
And still----

_Lalage_. Why dost thou pause, Politian?

_Politian_. And still together--together.

_Lalage_. Now Earl of Leicester!
Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.

_Politian_. Oh, Lalage! (_throwing himself upon his knee_.)
And lovest thou _me_?

_Lalage_. Hist!--hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure past--
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (_walks
across and returns_.)
I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

_Politian_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.

_Lalage_. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
A thousand leagues within the golden west;
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?

_Politian_. O, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee,
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?

_Lalage_. A deed is to be done--
Castiglione lives!

_Politian_. And he shall die! (_exit_.)

_Lalage_ (_after a pause_.) And--he--shall--die!----alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
Thou _art_ not gone--thou art not _gone_, Politian!
I _feel_ thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou _couldst_ not go
With those words upon thy lips--O, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou _art_ not gone--
O speak to me! I _knew_ thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
Villain, thou _art_ not gone--thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee--thus!----He is gone, he is gone--
Gone--gone. Where am I?----'tis well--'tis very well!
So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis very well--alas! alas! (_exit_.)

LOGIC.

Among ridiculous conceits may be selected _par excellence_, the thought of a celebrated Abbé--"that the heart of man being triangular, and the world spherical in form, it was evident that all worldly greatness could not fill the heart of man." The same person concluded, "that since among the Hebrews the same word expresses death and life, (a point only making the difference,) it was therefore plain that there was little difference between life and death." The chief objection to this is, that _no_ one Hebrew word signifies life and death.

{17}

AN ADDRESS ON EDUCATION,

AS CONNECTED WITH THE PERMANENCE OF OUR REPUBLICAN INSTITUTIONS.

Delivered before the Institute of Education of Hampden Sidney College, at its Anniversary Meeting, September the 24th, 1835, on the invitation of that body,--by Lucian Minor, Esq. of Louisa.

[_Published by request of the Institute_.]

Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Institute:

I am to offer you, and this large assembly, some thoughts upon EDUCATION, _as a means of preserving the Republican Institutions of our country_.

The sentiment of the Roman Senate, who, upon their general's return with the shattered remains of a great army from an almost annihilating defeat, thanked and applauded him for _not despairing of the Republic_, has, in later times, been moulded into an apothegm of political morality; and few sayings, of equal dignity, are now more hackneyed, than that "A good citizen will _never_ despair of the commonwealth."

I shall hope to escape the anathema, and the charge of disloyalty to our popular institutions, implied in the terms of this apothegm, if I doubt, somewhat, its unqualified truth; when you consider how frequently omens of ruin, overclouding the sky of our country, have constrained the most unquestionable republican patriot's heart to quiver with alarm, if not to sink in despair.

When a factious minority, too strong to be punished as traitors, treasonably refuse to rally under their country's flag, in defence of her rights and in obedience to her laws; when a factious majority, by partial legislation, pervert the government to the ends of self-aggrandizement or tyranny; when mobs dethrone justice, by assuming to be her ministers, and rush madly to the destruction of property or of life; when artful demagogues, playing upon the credulity or the bad passions of a confiding multitude, sway them to measures the most adverse to the public good; or when a popular chief (though he were a Washington) contrives so far to plant his will in the place of law and of policy, that the people approve or condemn both measures and men, mainly if not solely, by his judgment or caprice; and when all history shews these identical causes (the offspring of ignorance and vice) to have overthrown every proud republic of former times;--then, surely, a Marcus Brutus or an Algernon Sidney,--the man whose heart is the most irrevocably sworn to liberty, and whose life, if required, would be a willing sacrifice upon her altars--must find the most gloomy forebodings often haunting his thoughts, and darkening his hopes.

Indeed, at the best, it is no trivial task, to conduct the affairs of a great people. Even in the tiny republics of antiquity, some twenty of which were crowded into a space less than two-thirds of Virginia,--government was no such _simple machine_, as some fond enthusiasts would have us believe it might be. The only very simple form of government, is despotism. There, every question of policy, every complicated problem of state economy, every knotty dispute respecting the rights or interests of individuals or of provinces, is at once solved by the intelligible and irreversible _sic volo_ of a Nicholas or a Mohammed. But in republics, there are passions to soothe; clashing interests to reconcile; jarring opinions to mould into one result, for the general weal. To effect this, requires extensive and accurate knowledge, supported by all the powers of reasoning and persuasion, in discussing not only _systems_ of measures, but their minutest details, year after year, before successive councils, in successive generations: and supposing the _machinery_ of _Legislative_, _Executive_, and _Judiciary_ to be so simple or so happily adjusted, that an idiot might propel it, and a school-lad with the first four rules of arithmetic--or even "a negro boy with his knife and tally stick"[1]--might regulate its movements and record their results; still, those other objects demand all the comprehension and energies of no contracted or feeble mind. Nor are these qualities needful only to the actual administrators of the government. Its proprietors, the people, must look both vigilantly and intelligently to its administration: for so liable is power to continual abuse; so perpetually is it tending to steal from them to their steward or their agent; that if they either want the requisite sagacity to judge of his acts, or substitute a blind confidence in him for that wise distrust, which all experience proves indispensable to the preservation of power in the people,--it will soon be _their_ power no longer. A tame surrender of it to him is inevitable, unless they comprehend the subjects of his action well enough to judge the character of his acts: unless they know something of that vast and diversified field of policy, of duty, and of right, in which they have set him to labor. Yes--in its least perplexed form, on its most diminutive scale, the task of self-government is a perilously difficult one; difficult, in proportion to its nobleness: calling for the highest attributes of the human character. What, then, must it be, in a system so complex as ours? Two sets of public functionaries, to appoint and superintend: two sets of machinery to watch, and keep in order: each of them not only complicated within itself, but constantly tending to clash with the other. Viewing the State government alone, how many fearful dissensions have arisen, as to the extent of its powers, and the propriety of its acts! Turning then to the Federal government, how much more awful and numerous controversies, respecting both the constitutionality and expediency of its measures, have, within half a century, convulsed the whole Union! No less than three conjunctures within that time, threatening us with disunion and civil war; not to mention the troubles of the elder Adams' administration, the conspiracy of Burr, the Missouri dispute, or the cloud (now, I trust, about to disperse) which has just been lowering in our northern sky. To the complexity of our two governments, separately considered, add the delicate problems daily springing from their relations with one another, and from the mutual relations of the twenty-four states--disputes concerning territory; claims urged by citizens of one, against another state; or wrongs done to some states, by citizens and residents of others--all these, and innumerable other questions, involving each innumerable ramifications, continually starting up to try the wisdom and temper, if not to mar the peace, of our country;--and say, if there are words forcible and emphatic enough to express the need, that the POPULAR WILL, which supremely controls this labyrinthine complication of difficulties, should be enlightened by knowledge, tempered by kindness, and ruled by justice?

[Footnote 1: Mr. Randolph's Speech in the Virginia Convention, November, 1829.]